


aces up his sleeve

by sakura_aesthetic (orphan_account)



Category: Ten Count
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Non-Graphic Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 02:21:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14439417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/sakura_aesthetic
Summary: Shirotani Tadaomi, though thirty-one-years old, believes in magic. No, he is not a magician. And yes, he still finds the simplest of tricks both bewitching and inspiring.He believes in magic, however, not because he's seen a few bunnies pulled from top hats. Oh no, he believes because Kurose Riku is magic.





	aces up his sleeve

 

 

_[he] was the ghost of my solitary nights_

_the fervour of my imagination_

_silhouetting the shape of my longing_

_(subtle delusions of the shadow magic)_

_— the mumbling hermit —_

* * *

Shirotani Tadaomi, though thirty-one-years old, believes in magic. No, he is not a magician. And yes, he still finds the simplest of tricks both bewitching and inspiring. He believes in magic, however, not because he’s seen a few bunnies pulled from top hats. Oh no, he believes because Kurose Riku _is_ magic.

For reasons Shirotani cannot even begin to fathom, the psychologist made his grand appearance a few months ago and has yet to become a disappearing act. Shirotani thinks this weird occurrence is nothing more than a card trick, nothing more than some miraculous sleight of hand.

Nobody has ever stayed for the second act.

Usually, after revealing his severe phobia of germs, Shirotani’s audience disperses.

But not Kurose. He didn’t so much as blink when Shirotani unveiled the aces up his sleeve.  

 

x

 

They go out to dinner on Friday night. On most dates, Kurose suggests going to a downtown café just after noon, or stopping at a coffee shop once work lets out. Not today.

It’s past nine o’clock when Shirotani sees Kurose across the station, the psychologist adjusting his thick, woolen coat to cover his ears. An October chill is upon the crowd and, as of late last week, temperatures are supposed to drop ten degrees below average. Shirotani shivers as a gust of wind nips his skin, but once he meets Kurose’s gentle, soothing eyes, the autumn breeze is nonexistent and everything feels warm.

“Kurose-kun, thank you for meeting me this late.”

The psychologist offers a knowing smile.

“Of course. I figured you didn’t want to go during peak hours.”

The couple stands in silence for a few moments. In the meantime, Shirotani’s hands go numb from the cold and he fumbles to stuff them into his blazer pockets.

“Did you bring a coat?” Kurose tentatively asks.

Shirotani doesn’t respond. He doesn’t have to.

“Take mine. You’re cold.”

The psychologist slips the heavy coat from his shoulders, left in nothing but a long-sleeved shirt. Shirotani immediately feels a pang of guilt; Kurose’s skin is already littered in goosebumps.

“I don’t want it,” Shirotani whispers just before Kurose drapes him in his clothing.

But he does want it. Although the coat never makes it to his shoulders, Shirotani can feel the warmth that is Kurose’s body heat radiating through the fabric. Not only that but it smells like Kurose. It smells like home.

“Are you sure?” Kurose asks, testing the secretary’s restraint.

“I-I’m dirty. I’ll contaminate it.”

Shirotani lies easily. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

“Alright.”

Much to Shirotani’s chagrin, Kurose replaces the coat on his shoulders, stuffing his arms through the sleeves. The raven breathes a sigh of relief, his body instantly slumping with an extra layer regained.

_As long as Kurose-kun’s warm, then it’s fine. It’s fi—_

“Shall we go?”

Shirotani nods and leads the way. At this hour, there are many people huddling for warmth, walking hand in hand, laughing within their close circle of friends. There are bodies inches away from Shirotani, bodies so close to touching him. He should be panicking. He should be trembling with anxiety. He should be shrinking, making himself smaller so he doesn’t come into contact with anyone else. But he doesn’t. If anything, his mind is consumed in thoughts revolving around Kurose and how their hands occasionally brush, how Kurose’s breath is visible in the bitter cold, how badly Shirotani wants to taste those winter-kissed lips.

Yet, even though Shirotani is damn near desperate to hold Kurose’s hand, it’s much too cold and if he doesn’t stow his hands, he fears they’ll become frostbitten. Dejected, he rubs his hands together one last time, exhales a shaky breath into his cupped palms then slowly moves them to his pocket. Before he can, Kurose snatches his right hand in his left, interlocking their fingers.

A stunned Shirotani glances down at their hands then at Kurose’s face, which is, of course, smiling that kind, warm smile that Shirotani both loves and hates.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to, Shirotani-san.”

Kurose squeezes Shirotani’s dainty hand as if to prove a point; the strawberry-blonde shivers. Not because he’s cold. Because he’s warm. Because somehow, Kurose has done it again and makes everything inside the secretary fuzzy, soft, and sensitive.

Shirotani, though weak at the knees and content to be holding hands, yearns to know how Kurose manages to do this. One word: magic. And a magician never reveals his secrets.

 

x

 

Kurose gives Shirotani one final chance to bow out.

The secretary—his thoughts muddled and blurry and disoriented—throws his last chance away and instead, laces their fingers together.

“Please, Kurose-kun. Please.”

The raven responds with a light peck on the lips, something nowhere near satisfying enough for Shirotani. He shouldn’t want this. He shouldn’t want to be kissed, to be touched, to be held.

If there’s anything he’s learned in the past six months of dating Kurose, however, it’s the fact that at the end of every day, when the night is old, _this_ is inevitable. His body wants—no, _needs_ this. He needs Kurose in every way that he can have him: lips spilling stardust onto his collarbone; knuckles pressing against the underside of his jaw; hips rolling into him like a tidal wave kissing the shore.

“M-more, Kurose-kun. Please, more…”

Kurose chuckles and scoops Shirotani’s body into his arms, cradling him, settling the secretary over his gyrating hips.

“I’ll touch you more. Don’t worry.”

The raven pistons his pelvis upward, earning a throaty moan from the man writhing above him. The pressure builds and with friction, Shirotani grinds down, his mouth gaping at the immeasurable pleasure leaking from forbidden places, from parts of his body he has never once dared to touch before. Kurose takes the initiative in reaching between their bodies, slipping his hand into Shirotani’s trousers. The strawberry-blonde whimpers at the dexterity of Kurose’s careful touch, stroking him, caressing him, _teasing_ him.

“K-kurose-kun…”

Bearing down with more weight, Shirotani bucks at Kurose’s ministrations, unable to control his movements. He is entirely at the raven’s disposal. Kurose chuckles, leaving Shirotani panting with aching need.

_Oh God, that sound he makes when he touches me._

Kurose holds the small of Shirotani’s back, easing him down on the mattress. Without pausing to breathe, the psychologist latches onto Shirotani’s neck, sucking the junction between his shoulder and throat. The secretary groans as he feels Kurose’s teeth sink in, nipping him, tasting the sweat beading on his skin.

“You taste good, Shirotani-san. You taste sweet.”

Shirotani shudders at the sultry voice whispering above him. They are closer now, a mere five inches apart, if not less. Moving to kiss him on the mouth, tongue prying open his lips, Kurose’s hands find their way to his own jeans, slowly unzipping them. The sound alone leaves Shirotani anxious—he is terrified but alive and ready for this. Hovering over him, Kurose releases a moan, his upper body relaxing as he spills out, the pressure of his pants gone. So close. Almost touching.

Shirotani shouldn’t want this. He shouldn’t want this _at all_.

But Kurose has magic at his fingertips and knows exactly how to captivate an audience. Without further hesitation, he leans down and fiercely kisses Shirotani, their tongues dancing together, their legs automatically repositioning to accommodate what’s to come. Shirotani is at the edge of his seat now, entirely lost in his lover’s touch, clinging to the man who so desperately gives a show.

“More. More. More,” Shirotani pleads, his shaky hands grasping Kurose’s strong arms. “I want more.”

Trailing his fingers down Shirotani’s navel, Kurose smirks, lust glinting in his irises.

“Whatever Shirotani-san wants, I shall give.”

And with his fingers, Kurose casts a spell over Shirotani, leaving the man beneath him panting and begging to come.

“Please, I want to come. I w-want to—”

He silences Shirotani with another kiss then splits the deck, shuffles the cards, and deals them. Shirotani hasn’t played this game before and all he can do is watch.

“Not yet. Just wait. I want to come together,” Kurose groans. Shirotani mewls in return. They are so close now. So fucking close.

Kurose exposes his sleeve long enough for Shirotani to see—swollen lips, hazy eyes, blushing cheeks, a lewd expression. Shirotani has never seen Kurose look like this before and it’s melting him. It’s too warm now. Too hot for an October night. It’s supposed to be cold, but with Kurose’s hands ensnared in his, mouth captured, it’s sweltering.

“Kurose-kun, please let me come! I’m going to come!”

“Then come, Shirotani-san. Come for me.”

As the final act, Kurose lays his cards on the table and with a thrust, comes undone. A standing ovation. Roses on the stage. No words except a look of adoration. Shirotani watches Kurose come for the first time and with a final bow, he comes too.

The last act of the night and it is a sensation.


End file.
